Red Velvet
by PlatinumPizzaKiller
Summary: Katniss is watching Peeta decorate some queer-looking cupcakes when, suddenly, a memory rushes back. Post-War. Fluff. Oneshot.


Peeta sweeps the pearl-coloured frosting over the tops of the cupcakes, the swirls looking like small cream roses. I'm transfixed by the movements of his fingers. I watch as, gradually but indisputably, the red cupcakes slowly transform into what can only be called art.

It's a rainy Saturday afternoon, not a day for hunting. I'd followed Peeta to the bakery this morning when the rain wouldn't let up, promising to be of help. The day has creeped into afternoon, now, and I don't think I have really contributed to any of the elegantly decorated delicacies lining the bakery. Peeta doesn't seem to mind. He never does.

I'm surrounded by cookies and cakes and pastries, each of elaborate beauty, but these cupcakes had captured my attention. Over the years, I've gotten familiar with terms such as buttermilk and ganache and blanching. They no longer seem to be in a distant language, lost to translation. I know the names of every single in the bakery—even asiago cheese bread and black bottom pecan pie—except for these. These oddly beautiful cupcakes.

I'm about to tell Peeta that he has never made these cupcakes before, when a sudden memory struggles to rise. I _have_ seen these cupcakes before…but where?

"Have you made these before?" I ask Peeta, who is dusting red crumbs over the rose-like frosting.

He glances at me. "No, this is my first time." There is a pause. "But my father made these. Just once."

And suddenly, the memory breaks through. I was with my father, and we had just come back from the woods. I oddly remember wet hair, so we must have gone swimming. On our way through the town, my father, much to my delight, stopped by the bakery.

It was a rare occurrence, even then. I remember the sweetest smell, of fresh bread and vanilla frosting. My father was trading game, a squirrel and a duck for two stale loaves, chatting with the baker, but my face was pressed against the display glass, taking in the colourful cakes and glistening pastries and buttery cookies. My eyes had locked on an unusual set of cupcakes, ones whose bottoms were red and tops were white, sprinkled with red. The peculiarity, the smell, the colours…

I remember a sinking feeling in my stomach. I knew, even then, that I could never, in my life, have those glorious treats shining at me from the impenetrable glass. I remember drawing away, pulling back, feeling oddly defeated.

"Your father made these!" I say, the bittersweet memory passing through me in a rush.

"That's…what I said," Peeta says.

"No, I mean…I remember. I was there," I say. "I was with my father, trading game with yours, and I remember those cupcakes." I don't mention remembering the longing I felt for them, and the sharp realization that came with it.

Peeta pauses in filling an icing tube, recollection softening his face. "And I remember you looking at those cupcakes," he murmurs.

I am confused until another piece of the memory is added. A pair of blue eyes peeking out from the back of the baker behind the counter. I laugh. "You were hiding behind your father!"

Peeta says, "I guess I was intimidated by beautiful women, even then."

I snort. "Please. We were…what? Six years old?"

Peeta shrugs. "Then I was intimidated by the girl who could silence the mockingjays." He then peeks at me from underneath those blond bangs. "Also you were holding an arrow and a dead rabbit, and that kind of terrified me."

Laughter escapes me. I love how easy it is for him to make me laugh. I lean forward and kiss him, still smiling. He beams, and it reminds me of sunshine.

I watch Peeta finish the rest of the cupcakes in comfortable silence, the rain drumming endlessly on outside. His father's cupcakes were decorated with only the white frosting and red crumbs. Peeta's has these, but on top of the flower-like frosting, he is adding actual roses made of icing as red as blood. I can't help but think of how Peeta always does this. He takes an old recipe and elevates it, turning his work into art.

I say it without thinking. "Your father would be so proud of you."

His hands stay steady with the icing but his voice shakes. "I really hope so."

The quiet resumes, broken only by the rain on the windowpanes. Suddenly, it hits me that I still do not know what these are called. "Peeta, what's the name of these cupcakes?"

"Red velvet," he answers.

"Velvet?" My eyebrows draw together as I envision couches and dresses. "What are these cupcakes made of?"

He laughs. "Not fabric," he assures me.

"Why are they called 'red velvet', then?"

"I don't know. I guess they look a bit like…velvet that is red."

"I suppose…" I peer at the one closest to me. "What makes them red?"

"Food coloring," he says.

My heart jumps. "Food coloring? As in, from the Capitol?" Most of his frostings are colored by various berries and petals that I gather for him. He nods, and I ask slowly, "Exactly what else are in these?"

He tries to keep his voice casual. "Sugar, flour, a pinch of salt…" There is a falter in his voice, "Cream cheese, cocoa powder, vanilla bean, white vinegar…"

I blink. Now, it is not as if we are struggling to make ends meet or put food on our plates. Not anywhere near. But these small luxuries come out of Peeta's pocket. He usually finds substitutes quite easily—in fact, we have a book of substitutes on the kitchen shelf—yet I suppose not everything can be replaced. It's no wonder he hasn't ever made these.

"The mayor wants a batch," Peeta explains, "The top medical researchers from around Panem are having a meeting. A meeting of extreme secrecy, so I have told you nothing. They have a sweet tooth, apparently, since the Mayor nearly bought the entire bakery. And he also ordered the finest red velvet cupcakes that I could concoct. So…" With a sweep, he finishes the last rose. "And voila! How do they look?"

I am six years old, again, mesmerized by the colors and drooling at the smell. "Peeta, it's…it's art. No, honestly," I insist when he scoffs. As if I am the type to spin fake compliments.

Peeta glances at me, then slides over a cupcake. "Try one," he says shyly.

My eyebrows rise. He's not offering me a cupcake, he's offering me a contrivance concocted straight from the Capitol. And I am not about to just _eat_ his hard-earned money. I say, "I am so full. I just ate an entire bowl of berries before the rain started."

Peeta laughs. "You're a really bad liar, you know that?"

I scowl. "You need these for the medical people. I'm not going to eat what you—they paid for."

"One won't hurt, Katniss."

"Yes, it will," I say, dismissively.

Suddenly, Peeta reaches over and swipes his finger into the frosting of a cupcake, smearing the perfect rose pattern, yet only slightly. "Uh oh," he says, "Did I ruin one of the finest red velvet cupcakes that I could concoct? I can't possibly give the Mayor this embarrassment."

I can't help but laugh. "Who's the bad liar, now?"

"Come on, Katniss," Peeta insists. "I really, _truly_ want you to try one."

Slowly, hesitantly, I accept the cupcake. My heart beats faster. I look at its intricate beauty, the once unattainable treat now in my hands. I feel inexplicable tears in my eyes. I take a bite before I start to cry over a cupcake.

As the tart sweetness explodes on my tongue, a sudden realization breaks through. "Oh!"

"What?" Peeta's forehead creases. "Are they bad?"

"No, they're beyond delicious—I've had this before!"

Now Peeta is confused. "Katniss, even _I've_ never had one before."

The last piece of the puzzle is added and the completed memory now plays before me. The baker had probably seen me watching the cupcakes, since I remember him ducking into the back, promising a fresh loaf of bread for my father. I don't remember seeing Peeta, he must've gone off to another part of the bakery. The baker had returned with the bread, alright, but he also held in his hand a red-bottomed cupcake. "For the girl," he had said.

I remember my father shaking his head. "We couldn't."

"It's nothing," the baker had said, but my father was adamant. The baker insisted. "Take it, it's gone stale. Plus I've ruined the frosting. At the edge, see?" But I could see nothing but a shining treat, glistening in the sunlight. The baker's smile was broad as he handed it to me with a wink.

That cupcake was the first and only pastry I'd ever had before the Games.

All this rushes back to me as I swallow the first bite of the cupcake. Peeta is watching me expectantly. "What does it taste like?" he asks, genuinely curious.

Like heaven. Like chocolate and sweet cheese and all things good. But I don't say anything. I realize that, much like his father, Peeta doesn't get to eat what he creates. Sure, he swipes a finger into the batter or frosting to make sure it tastes right, but he never eats most of the delicious foods that he is surrounded by.

I take another bite of the rich, creamy goodness, then slide over the rest to him. "You tell me."

His eyes widen. "No, it's—"

"I ate half. The rest is for you. Now eat it."

But he's shaking his head so I pick up the cupcake and put it in his hands. I don't let go of them. "I ate half. Now it's yours." A smile tugs at my lips and I say, "That's how love works, Peeta."

Now he looks overwhelmed for a different reason, so I guide his hands to his mouth before he can say anything. He takes a bite, still looking at me. A moment passes before he says, "They're delicious."

"They're more than delicious," I say. "They're the finest red velvet cupcakes anyone in Panem could concoct."

And, as he should know, I'm not the type to spin fake compliments.


End file.
